


Merely Players

by BlueKiwi, LyraNgalia



Series: A Mirror Darkly [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Female Moriarty, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueKiwi/pseuds/BlueKiwi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On one unremarkable night, Irene Adler meets with an infamous crimelord and his assistant - or at least, that's the assumption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**all the world's a stage,**   
**and all the men and women merely players...**

oOo

Choosing a restaurant as the site of a clandestine meeting was an overused ploy for a reason. It was suitably public enough to repel any obvious attempts at subterfuge (even though eliminating threads completely was extremely unlikely), but the consistent murmur of background conversation and the hum from the faraway kitchen helped drown a very private conversation to only those involved.

In an enclosed alcove near the front door of the restaurant sat two people dressed in simple but expensive evening wear, ignored by most people passing by the golden-lit shadows. The woman seemed bored, absently scrolling through her smartphone, and perhaps the lack of conversation and food at the table was the source of the boredom. The man watched the exit and entrance of the restaurant with an almost unnerving intensity, his glass of wine - the only drink on the table - untouched.

A sleek, polished towncar pulled up to the restaurant, practically oozing wealth and good taste. It was a car that would pass from the mind of a passerby at first glance, but that with prompting could be easily recalled.

The driver exited first, and opened the back passenger door to let a woman, _The_ Woman, disembark. She wore white and tasteful jewelry, all of it once again oozing discreet wealth and good taste. But this was a restaurant that saw its share of evening wear and expensive jewelry, and Irene Adler's appearance created a small ripple of appreciation but little more as she stepped inside and headed unerringly for the alcove near the front door.

The man spotted her immediately from just outside the glass doors of the restaurant. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and glanced at the woman, who still was preoccupied with her phone. He shifted minutely - hardly anything to be taken as a signal - but the woman looked up towards the door, brown eyes widening. She quickly pulled a expensive leather folio from the purse nestled under her seat, rising to greet the other woman as she approached. She held out her hand in greeting, a polite if impersonal smile on her face.

"Miss Adler, I presume?"

The man watched the greetings silently, an eyebrow raised as if in disapproval at Irene's tardiness.

Irene's eyes flicker over the carefully polite secretary, over at the man with violence in his fingers, then back again. The single glance was enough to tell her that the man in question liked his orders, which was strange for a man of his position. The woman, on the other hand, liked her games with an intensity Irene would not have guessed from a mere secretary.

Something was _very_ interesting here.

She smiled at the man's silent disapproval, the gesture cold and sharp as steel. "Maya, was it? I believe we've spoken before." She took the proffered hand, her own soft despite the brisk, business-like grip. "And this is your employer, I'm to assume?"

Maya looked over at the man again. He was eyeing Irene thoughtfully and after a moment or two gave a nod of acquiescence. Maya turned back to Irene, a look of relief briefly crossing her face as if she had been holding some strange tension in her shoulders.

"Yes. I'm Mr. Moriarty's assistant. I hope you didn't have too much trouble with such a last minute arrangement." It looked as if she wanted to add more - mostly something along the lines of mentioning what an inconvenience it had been to make those last minute arrangements - but she held her tongue.

"Miss Adler," the man said as he stood, an amused glint in his eyes. He reached forward to shake her hand. "Your reputation precedes you."

Irene's gaze remained on Maya's expression until Moriarty spoke, and only then did she glance away to give him a second, scrutinizing look. His handshake was firm, with calluses and the promise of violence in every finger, and despite her own business-like grip, there was a sense of theatre to his intimidation, something imminently carefully constructed. It, along with her earlier observation of what he liked, made Irene even more curious.

"As does yours, Mr. Moriarty."

Another glance at the assistant, as Irene gestured to the table they had already taken. "Shall we have a seat and discuss business, or would you rather dance with the pleasantries for another half hour?"

"A carefully constructed reputation," Moriarty said with a swift, wolfish grin, gesturing for the two ladies to take a seat. "I prefer people to come to their own misguided image of the so-called crime lord." Maya settled into her seat, handing the portfolio to Irene and falling into silence, turning back to her phone.

Moriarty sat back in his chair, watching Irene calmly. "Let’s not dance then. Your situation with the Prime Minister is precarious."

The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of Irene's lips, the only hint of her amusement at Moriarty's attempt to spin acquiescence back into command. It was obvious, to her eye, that he was used to it. Which, again, begged the question of why he'd allowed it in the first place.

The puzzle simply got more and more interesting.

She slid into a seat with a bearing that was regal. "That is a matter of pure perspective, now isn't it?" She set a phone, her Blackberry, not the cameraphone that she kept hidden, but it served well enough as a proxy, on the table and tapped it with a finger. "One could say that the Prime Minister's situation with _me_ is precarious."

Moriarty glanced at the phone, a frown darkening his eyes for a moment. Then he shrugged, settling back into the urbane but icy demeanor that had encompassed him only minutes before. "Speculation? How much truth do you think your contacts are passing on to you?" The words weren't said in a condescending tone, but one of mild curiosity.

"Who said anything about contacts, pet?" Irene kept her words directed towards Moriarty, but at least a good half of her attention was on the secretary. She tapped the phone's screen again, the ghost of a smile coalescing into something sharp and sinful.

"There's truth in pictures, and I have enough scandal to topple half of his Cabinet support."

Maya paid no attention to the conversation, continuing to scroll and type away on her smartphone.

Moriarty tilted his head to the side, a faintly annoyed look in his eyes at the almost-disparaging nickname.

"Well, you are right about that." He leaned forward, turning his gaze pointedly to the portfolio. "But that doesn't change that you're still standing on the edge of a precipice. Your truth is only good if certain circumstances hold up - or if someone else hasn't already created a better offer of protection to the parties involved."

The annoyance in his eyes was answered by another twitch at the corner of her mouth, the hint of a laugh that dared him to have a stronger reaction to the diminutive. She looked to the folio and inclined her head ever so slightly.

"Playing both sides, of course. This is the part where you have your assistant present a counter offer for my protection, isn't it?"

Moriarty let out a short bark of laughter. "Hardly." He gestured lazily, sitting back in his chair with the air of someone who was bored by the entire conversation. "It's a matter of self-interest actually. As long as you kept to yourself in this world, I honestly could not have cared less about your comings and goings. Unfortunately, some of your recent...liaisons have encroached on the territory of some business associates of mine."

For the first time in several moments, Maya looked up from her phone, looking from Moriarty to Irene and then to the portfolio on the tabletop. Her expression was carefully neutral as was to be expected from someone who dealt with being a crime lord's assistant, but her brow was slightly wrinkled in mild consternation.

Irene leans back in her seat, her hands still on the table, nails gleaming red against the tablecloth. The assistant's sudden attention draws her own, and she gives both consulting criminal and assistant a long, considering look.

"Ah, so we're still going to play the subtle threat. I was expecting better from the consulting criminal."

"Whether or not it's a threat is entirely up to you," Moriarty replied lazily. "I'd hardly strong-arm you into a deal but I do hate to see talent wasted."

Maya looked from Moriarty to Irene, narrowing her eyes. Eventually though, the role of silent assistant won over and she lowered her head, turning her attention back to her phone.

"If it were up to me, you'd offer something more tangible than a line you've lifted from the telly," Irene answers. She gestures to the folio and Maya with one sweep of her hand.

"So, if you really want me to make up my mind on whether this is a threat, let's actually talk business, shall we?"

Silence fell across the table. Moriarty gave Irene a long look, his expression completely unreadable. Maya glanced down at the folio, a strange and thoughtful look appearing in her eyes. After a moment, she looked up, a slow, appraising smile crossing her face.

With that simple gesture, a change in dynamics washed over the table. The man who clearly felt more at ease with fading to the background crossed his arms, gazing at some point beyond Irene, a mask of irritation passing over his face. The movement revealed the few wrinkles that were created by something previously unseen, unnoticed - a shoulder holster.

But the change to the young woman was much different. A darkness made of cold, detached calculations and an utter lack of empathy flooded the previously mild gaze, a lazy and leonine-like grace replacing the constructed appearance of a polite if bored assistant. While the man who was not Moriarty sat back with a cool indifference to the remainder of the conversation, she sat forward, severe and bold intensity in every line of her figure.

"Yes. Let’s."

As the carefully constructed assistant's facade falls away, the pieces that had not fit fell into place, and a razor wire smile cuts across Irene's face. Her attention turns away from the hired gun to the consulting criminal, and she tents her fingers together on the table.

"Now that's better. Miss Moriarty, I presume?"

Moriarty - the real one - nodded her head, still giving Irene that black, assessing look. "For obvious reasons, I don't often meet my clients - _especially_ potential clients - face-to-face. But your reputation was far too intriguing to pass up." She gestured towards the man still sitting next to her. "But please be assured that I have no qualms about keeping this secret an actual secret if you decide you'd rather use it as leverage."

She pushed the folio back towards Irene. "And I believe you'll find my information worth more than a cursory glance."

Irene rested a hand on the leather folio, but for the moment makes no move to open it. "I'd say you have my word that I'd keep your secret as my own, but we both know I'd be lying," she says. "But perhaps we can agree that I like my head exactly where it is at the moment, and you find me more interesting in the same state."

Moriarty’s expression remained disturbingly remote. "Trust is a rare commodity amongst villains, Miss Adler. It's even rarer amongst the sheep. You've already been compromised."

Irene arched an eyebrow in response as she drew the folio closer and opened its supple leather cover. A very slight widening of her eyes was the only betrayal of her surprise as she scanned the contents of the folio.

She tapped blood red nails against the tabletop. "Well now, that _is_ a surprise. And what exactly do you plan on doing with this 'compromising information', Miss Moriarty?"

Moriarty tilted her head to the side, looking mildly thoughtful. "The question is, what would _you_ have me do with it? There are a number of possibilities, few of them pleasant." .

The man sitting at her side snorted quietly, shaking his head.

"The fact that I'm here at all would suggest you already have some idea in mind." The hint of a wry smile on her lips. "But then you'd say the same of me."

She twined her fingers together on the table and fixed Moriarty with a cool, professional smile. "We both know I'd rather you did nothing at all with it and we both go on our merry ways. But that seems rather unlikely, so let's say I have information that you might find more interesting than what you've got here. And we can talk about protection."

"It's a rare day that I do nothing with this sort of information," Moriarty replied. Tick tock, Irene Adler. "And given my knowledge of your protection, I'd give you a week at most to keep your pretty little head attached to your neck." She paused for a moment, glancing back down at the folder and pursed her lips. "Lets say that your information is good, even profitable to my interests. My protection usually comes at a price, but I've considered that perhaps you'd provide a useful solution to a small problem."

Her lips thinned at the less-than-veiled threat, and Irene shot Moriarty's trigger man a sharp look. "And what 'small problem' would that be?" she asked, the smallest edge of irritation chafing in her voice.

The man met Irene's look placidly, only raising one challenging eyebrow at the silent defiant glance. Moriarty didn't even turn to look, only slightly raised her hand in a placating gesture. "Sebastian, behave." The man smirked slightly and turned his attention back towards the door, the faintest hue of amusement in his eyes.

Moriarty absently closed the folio still lying on the table before looking back up at Irene, that same dark curiosity burning in her eyes.

"I'm sure you've heard of Mycroft Holmes."

A carefully noncommittal shrug, though there is a sharp, shrewd, almost avaricious look in her eyes at the name. Secrets, information, were after all the means by which she made her way in the world. And this was one she'd been skirting the edges of for ages.

"The man who occupies a 'minor position in the British Government'? I've heard whispers."

Moriarty smiled. It was an odd little smile that didn't reach her eyes - cold and brittle, but strangely _normal_ on her face. "A minor position. Yes. I admire his stubbornness and...aptitude, but there comes a time when even admiration is not enough to forgo business affairs."

Moriarty's smile reminded Irene of a snake, or possibly an alligator, cold and ruthless, but in a way that was utterly natural for a predator. She herself gave a brief, shallow nod at the answer.

"I hope you're not trying to insinuate that your 'small problem' is something you," she pauses and gestures at Moriarty, "can't accomplish in the bedroom."

This time, Moriarty actually laughed. It was a girlish peal of amusement, hardly the sort of sound one would expect from a criminal mastermind. The man she had called Sebastian looked very tempted to roll his eyes, most likely at Irene's comment (there was a certain way he held himself around Moriarty that spoke less of companionship and more of something much more dangerous).

"No, Mycroft Holmes can be genuinely obtuse when it comes to women." There was something she wasn't saying, a small tilt at the corner of her mouth as if the words she spoke held all sorts of strange meanings. "I was thinking something more along the lines of a battle of wits."

Irene arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow at her response. "Now that has the potential to be much more interesting."

"I thought it might." She gestured lazily at the folio as the man at her side sat up, as if suddenly taking renewed interest in the conversation. "That's yours to keep. Consider it a display of good faith." She slipped her phone into her leather handbag and pulled out instead a slim white business card, reaching across the table to place it atop the folio. "Contact information. If you decide you'd rather not go up against the gentleman, you've only to make a call."

Moriarty rose then, swiftly followed by her companion. She met Irene's eyes evenly, an unspoken warning in that gaze. The smile and amusement were gone, replaced by that disturbingly blank mask of politeness. "Now if you'll excuse us, Miss Adler, my employer has a prior engagement he needs to keep."

"I hope we can do business," the man said with that same canine smile he had displayed earlier, giving Irene a small nod of farewell. "Keep your wits about you, and perhaps you won't have to look over your shoulder everywhere you turn."

And then they were gone, pausing only for a brief word with the maître d.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written with Jo.

The revolving doors of the restaurant swung silently to emit a tall blond man in a devilishly-expensive suit, following by a young woman who wore a distracted expression on her face. Neither of them had to flag down a valet - as if he had already been summoned, one was already pulling around in an expensive-looking car. The young man, still not quite out of the gawkiness of his late teens, scrambled out of the car, murmured a "you and you have a good evening" before vanishing back inside. 

Some of the other patrons waiting around for their vehicles gave the two cursory glances that were quickly averted when the young woman's cold black eyes fell on them. Her lips thinned into an unimpressed line and she slipped into the passenger seat of the car. Without any preamble, she tossed her purse in the backseat, neither noticing nor caring where it landed.

Propping her chin in her hand, she waited until her companion had pulled the car away from the curb to say, "Well."

No more, no less

Moran was irritated.

From the moment Irene Adler had walked into that restaurant, he knew he wouldn't like her. Within the moment of their introductions, her words had only confirmed his initial suspicion. She was a criminal who thought she always had the upper hand, smug in her disposition and grating in her condescension. He wished that Moriarty hadn't told him beforehand to rein in his impersonation because he gladly would've seen the woman fall flat on her well-shaped arse.

And then Moriarty decided to culminate the evening with a single word when Moran had to sit there and play good bodyguard, like some sort of well-trained pet? He thought not.

"I bloody hope you have more to say than just 'well'," he groused.

Moriarty didn't even look at him. Her lips curled upwards slightly, as if Moran had said something mildly amusing. There was a brittleness to her poise - not fragility, but chaos brimming just beneath a mask of normalcy. She lifts a finger to her lips.

"Well, she was pleasant."

Pleasant. Hmm. Yes, that was a word for Ms. Irene Adler, wasn't it?

Moran gave Moriarty a long incredulous look out of the corner of his eye and felt his fingers tighten around the polished leather of the steering wheel. He had come to recognize that little knowing smile, usually the only sign of the workings of her mind in the half-sentences and blank stares she'd give people. He had given it up as hopeless trying to decipher meanings behind her coded words. It said something that he was still probably the only person in the world who could remotely understand her.

He didn't know why her interest in the Woman was so sudden and intense, and all of his questions had been met with not-answers and distracting questions about Moriarty's other clients.

"I don't like her, boss," he finally relented. "And you gave your best secret. Seems like a damned thing to do if you don't want half the world to know by morning."

Moriarty ran her finger along the chrome insets of the door, watching as the streets of London passed in a dizzying blur of neon lights and sound, her own reflection like a ghost imparted over the neatly crowded streets. It was beautiful, in a way, how quickly the lovely and grandiose sprawling of a centuries-old culture could come crumbling down if only she spoke a word. 

After several moments of thoughtful silence, she sat back in her seat, eyes hooded in that deceptively lazy way that always caused people to underestimate her.

"Oh, does it?" she asked, closing her eyes. "Haven't you heard of the old saying to keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Sebastian?"

He snorted. "You're going with that old cliche? Really?" He paused and then added, "You didn't answer my question either. What was the point in letting her see past the ruse if you know she'd use it against you once she got the chance?"

He didn't dare say _that was an idiotic thing to do_. He remembered Moriarty's rare but memorable fits of rage - even in jest, demeaning her intelligence was a surefire way to end up with gun pointed at your skull.

Moriarty _liked_ her puzzle pieces, even the ones with the jagged edges or the ones that refused to conform no matter how she twisted them. There was nothing better than a good challenge. Moran, even though he knew her possibly better than anyone (which wasn't saying much) and despite the fact that he usually went along with her schemes, never seemed to be able to grasp that.

She didn't bother opening her eyes as she responded, "It makes things interesting, don't you think? If there's anything Ms. Adler is good at, it's protecting her own interests."

"You know I've never taken a liking to _interesting_ things," Moran replied. He has learned long ago to be frank with her - lies, while piquing _her_ manic inquisitiveness, only ended up giving him headaches. Though Moriarty had him trained to be the public image of the criminal consultant, minds games had and would never be his forte. 

He glanced up at the rear view mirror, wondering how long Moriarty was going to leave him in the dark about her tangled plans. "I take it that sending Holmes and Adler after each other is just a simple bonus of the job. Unless you _want_ Adler to tell Mycroft Holmes that the person he's been chasing for ten years is the secretary."

She let out a low hum, folding her hands on her lap. "Oh, you're so droll, Sebastian. Why would I send the Woman and the Iceman chasing each other all over London when I can entertain myself with the Woman on a leash? Mr. Holmes can certainly wait another several months to continue our delightful game."

The game had been unfailingly amusing for the past several years - enough close calls to leave one breathless, a dizzying spin of international chases that always wound back up in the streets of London. It had been enough for awhile, being able to dupe someone who was practically the entire British government, but Moriarty was quickly tiring of the cat's games and the general chaos she caused from the crime ring.

She needed something bigger, something that when released, would burn the governments of the _world_ to ash. 

"And it's twelve years, dear. Tell me - is that car still following us?"

"You think Adler's actually going to submit to being on a leash?" He couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice. "She seems more like a wildcat than a trained pup."

He pulled his gaze away from the rear view mirror and back to the road ahead. "Same one from before. James or Scotland, you think?"

Moriarty sat up in her seat, looking out the window to the side mirror. "That's why cages were built." She smiled. "Ah, that's Scotland. He's been rather determined these past few weeks."

Moran's eyes flickered up to the rear view mirror, catching sight of the glossy black car trailing them several dozen yards away. "You made quite an impression on him at the Tower Bridge, boss. You should let me shoot him this time."

Or toss him over said Bridge. Always a good way to end the night.

"What a perfectly wasted bullet." Moriarty waved her hand lazily. "I think we ought to take a bit of a diversion, Mr. Moran. Pull over up ahead. I'd like to see what our dear Scotland has to say."

Moran grimaced, suddenly reminded of the weight of the shoulder holster he wore. While he would have cheerfully put a round or two into Scotland's head (and even more gladly dumped the body into the Thames), he had worked with Moriarty long enough to know when she wanted to play with a victim before throwing them to her pet wolf. He almost scowled at the thought, fingers momentarily tightening around the wheel.

"It'd be easier to get rid of him." He pulled to the side of the road. To anyone passing by, it would simply look like a brief chat off the road. Inconspicuous enough unless Scotland decided that he'd had enough of Moriarty's labyrinth of games. He switched off the engine and buttoned his jacket, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. The headlamps from the other car died.

"But if you're so insistent on a dance, tell me if I'm playing the part or covering you."

She sat up then, slow and lazy movements quickly transforming into the sharp, bird-like gestures that most people often attributed to her as a 'personal assistant'. She watched the driver's door to the other car swing open, and a tall, gangly-looking man in a blazer and a newsboy cap unfolded himself from the car.

_Ah, Scotland. It's been too long._

Settling her observations of him in the back of her mind, she smiled at Moran. "Oh, lets have some fun with him, shall we?" And she slid out of the car, the cool and collected persona of Secretary wrapping around her like an impenetrable cloak.

Moran cursed beneath his breath - 'lets have some fun' was not any sort of plan. She either trusted him to make a fantastic impression of a crime lord who had no fucking idea what he was doing, or she was in high spirits after meeting one Irene Adler. Moran swore to himself if he ever crossed the dominatrix again, he was going to wring her neck.

He got out of the car, slipping a casual, condescending smile on his face. The man standing only a dozen yards away narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms against the cool breeze of the night. The wind caught his scarf and sent it tiredly flapping behind him, like some sort of a unenthusiastic flag.

"Scotland. It's been ages. What are you doing out this time of night?"

As Moran drove the conversation with far more expertise than he had shown with Irene Adler earlier that evening, Moriarty stood off to the side, her expression utterly devoid of anything resembling interest as she observed, cataloged, and tore asunder the man standing in front of them.

The blazer was dark, but the lines and edges of it were too crisp and clean and every so often, Scotland minutely adjusted his shoulders as if he could not quite get accustomed to the fit. _New. Uncomfortable._ The cap that sat atop his head did not quite hide his telltale reddish curls. _No recent shave. Busy or distracted. Deadlines._

Her eyes trailed downwards. Well-worn boots, but covered in mud. The last rain had been several weeks ago. _Traveling. Possible jetlag_. She couldn't help but frown in disappointment - she did not even wait to hear his reply to Moran. The man was tense, on edge, battling deadlines, and had his sleep schedule skewered towards exhaustion.

"Mr. Black," she murmured, not quite interrupting Moran, annoyance barely restrained in her eyes. _A waste of time. What good is the game, Scotland, if you're too miserly to play?_ "If you care to, you can make an appointment with my employer at a more convenient time."

Scotland - Mr. Black - scowled. If he had noticed that she had interrupted "Moriarty", he didn't show it. "Don't fucking toy with me, Maya," he growled, hands clenching. "There aren't going to be any appointments once I've warrants for your arrests. I know what happened in Berlin last month."

Ah. A change of pace. That was more like it. She almost smiled.

Thank you for letting me know your plan, boss. Still haven't quite pinned down the whole being a bloody telepath thing.

Moran propped a hip against the hood of the car, giving Scotland a long appraising look. Their encounters with the man before - always on the international scope, thanks to his ever-growing and ever-irritating contacts in Interpol - always ended in a hackneyed car chase or with someone getting shot. Moran could deal with someone getting shot, but he was in no mood to maneuver through the streets of London tonight.

"Berlin..." He pretended to consider it. It would be poor form to admit to the chaos in Germany that led back to Zurich. "Berlin... no, I'm afraid that I don't recall conducting any notorious business transactions there last month. Your intelligence needs work."

Berlin and Zurich had been the result of nearly a year of haphazard planning. The private banks in both countries were nearly at each other's throats. It was rather disappointing how easy it was to raise the hackles of people too tense and suspicious of another already.

She weighed the scales, and found too many people lacking.

"Have you proof?" she asked. _A tick of the mouth, restraining anger. Do I push you more or will you fall off the precipice on your own?_ "If not, I will ask that you arrange an appointment."

_Or shall we wind you up with the poor little Swiss and German banks until your lips turn blue? Come now, Scotland. Make your move._

He never glanced at Moriarty during these sorts of conversations. Even impromptu conversations had to be unconsciously choreographed and scripted. It was method acting taken to an absurd level. At the end of the day though, it did make him long for a good smoke and a whisky.

Scotland, one of many officers of the law that loved to think that they’d be the one to unravel London’s most notorious crime ring, was just another pawn to Moriarty. His only claim so far was that he was more dogged in his approach, a modern day Javert. Even as Moriarty spoke, his fingers itched for his gun, to solve a problem right there... but Moriarty hated messes.

It was too bad that Moran tended to cause them – and quite gladly too.

Scotland narrowed his eyes at both of them, weight shifting forward as if to take a few steps closer. Moran, out of the corner of his eye, saw that Moriarty was still standing by the passenger door, her hands most likely hidden by the frame of the car. He could only hope she would stay there, instead of getting a wild idea of conquest in her head.

“There’s no proof,” Moran drawled almost immediately, irritated by the conversation and the fact that it was preventing him from getting back to his flat to get a strong drink. Irene Adler was one thing. Scotland was another. “If you’re that curious, Mr. Black, you’ll find that yes, I was in Germany last month... but certainly not for the reasons you accuse me of.” He pretended confusion. “Have holidays become an international crime?”

The lovely thing about so often being dismissed as unimportant was that she could quietly observe with none the wiser.

She found what she needed, and now conversing with Scotland was useless.

She reached into her jacket, pulled out a business card, and approached Scotland, easily drawing his attention away from Moran. Despite his clear hatred of the two, Scotland was as susceptible as any man to a flash of a leg and the whiff of perfume. Even though his gaze was only broken for a second, it was enough. She handed him the card, giving him that same dully polite smile she had used on Irene early that evening.

“This is neither the time nor the place. If my employer prefers, I’d be more than happy to schedule an appointment between the pair of you that would not take place at such an inconvenient time of night.” She glanced back at him, a warning in her black eyes: _if you shoot him now, Sebastian, I’ll make you eat your own gun_.

He saw that warning and nearly smiled despite himself.

_Of course, boss. You owe me something other than negotiations for a week._

He doubted Moriarty would comply though. Readjusting his jacket, he nodded at the both of them. “Now that seems more than a fair deal. You bring your proof and your warrant which, from your show of bravado and lack of action, you clearly haven’t brought with you tonight.” He turned his back, calling over his shoulder as he opened the car door. “Take the gentleman’s information, and let’s be on our way.”

_And a drink. A very, very strong drink._

Once in the car, he was already moving. Despite what Moriarty said and the fact that he trusted her (well, insofar as anyone could trust Moriarty), his mood was blacker than night and he wanted nothing more to get the hell away from Scotland and his grating suspicions.

Fuck protocol.

Up close, Moriarty could see the lines of tension on Scotland’s face. He wasn’t old by any means, but he had looked to age years since their last encounter several months ago. Well, that’s rather curious...

She handed him the card and gave him a curt nod, turning to leave.

 _A step against the pavement, a hiss of frustration_... Scotland’s fingers brushed against her jacket sleeve as she whirled on him to prevent a bruising, painful grip to her upper arm. She gave him a dubious frown as if wondering what his goal had been when he grabbed her. Her look caused him to turn an angry red – ah, she was right. She could read violence in every line of his body, exhaustion and frustration giving way to rage.

Hmm. He was usually so much more level than this. He was making this far too easy. What an interesting set of variables he was providing tonight. Sending him on his merry way across the globe might have almost been too pleasant.

Then, she heard the revealing click of a gun’s hammer being pulled back. In her mind, she could almost hear Moran growl, “Fuck protocol and the bloody horse it rode in on.”

“I hope that you didn’t intend to threaten her to make a point, Mr. Black.”

In hindsight, it probably was an idiotic thing to do. But Moran was in a grump, Moriarty was playing at charades, Scotland was being a right smarmy bastard, and, most importantly, Moran had no nicotine in his system and the night had been threatening to end peacefully. He gestured at the pair of them, a cool grin on his face. “I’d rather not send a corpse back to your boss, Scotland. My word holds more clout than you’d think.”

Moriarty gave Moran a long, flat look before she shrugged, moving out of Scotland's grasp. "You'll contact me, of course. Have a lovely night, Mr. Black."

And she went back to the car, giving Moran a pointed look as she did so.

Moran ignored the look as he always did, keeping the gun aimed at Scotland who was doing nothing except glowering at both of them. He would have thought it very strange that the other man had not yet reached for his weapon yet. Still, it didn't matter - with Moriarty gone, it was left up to _him_ to end the conversation diplomatically.

And that meant no shooting.

That bitch.

"Listen, Scotland, Mr. Black," Moran replied in an amiable tone. "I suspect that you've had a bit of a time tracking us across Europe these past several months. It must be rather tiring for you, especially when you're trying to keep your true identity a secret from those who hire you." He grinned, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. "It'd be a horrible thing if your past got back to them, you know."

Scotland's face was grim, flushed in an attempt to bite back his anger. Moran snorted and gave him a half-hearted salute with his gun. _Well, if you're just going to stand there..._

"We'll speak soon, eh?"

"I will see you hang, Moriarty." The words were nearly spat out. Oh, the poor chap really _wasn't_ on his game today. Too bad - Moran would have liked a bit of a challenge. He glanced back at Scotland, who took a threatening step forward. "Or rot in prison for all I care, but it will happen."

"Oh?" Moran laughed. "Well then, give my regards to Lestrade, would you? We might as well make it a party."

And then he climbed into the car and drove off, leaving the tall Scottish officer in his wake. The moment they rounded a corner, Moran gave Moriarty a disgruntled look, noting that she hadn't taken the time to berate him on his actions. Oh fucking well.

"What do you make of that?"

Moriarty silently toyed with the bracelet around her slim wrist as they drove away from the confrontation, her eyes fixed resolutely ahead on the road. There was much she suspected from Scotland's lack of action - the sloppy and almost desperate way in which he had thought to corner him. Something was amiss with him and Moriarty found that _interesting_.

Still, she was rather irritated with Moran himself. She cut him a sharp look, frowning. "Far be it for me to tell you that I've more than once had a gun to my head. Are you truly that determined to put a bullet in someone tonight?"

But even as she spoke, she was weaving calculations in her head. Scotland, Berlin, Irene Adler...oh, this might come along very nicely.

Moran's jaw clenched. 

"Have you ever considered that perhaps being led around on a goddamned leash makes a person less than inclined to play well with others, boss?" He didn't bother trying to keep the heat out of his voice after she rebuked him. The entire evening had grated his nerves to hell and back - he didn't feel like being polite and good humored to Moriarty right now.

_A strong drink and nicotine. Goddamn Moriarty's games and the fucking Woman and that bastard Scotland who can't leave well enough alone._

Moriarty watched him for a long and silent moment before turning her attention back out the window.

"Honestly, Sebastian. What would you do if I let you off your leash? We can't have that now, can we?"

He swerved a bit more violently than he intended to. The car that he cut off blared its horn at him, and he lazily flipped them off and hoped they'd end up in a ditch somewhere in Liverpool.

"'We'. Now there's a laugh." He let out a slow breath, trying to control his annoyance. "Next time you want to jump in front of a gun or piss off an office of the law just for shits and giggles, remember to give me several months advance."

He glanced in his side view mirror and saw no trail. He bet Scotland was as good as finished if Moriarty had a say in things. Berlin had been a hell of a thing - if Scotland nozzed it up, Moran was going to personally introduce him to several of his contacts in Hong Kong and leave him in their company for a week. Cruel and unusual punishment did not begin to cover it.

They drove in silence for nearly ten minutes, leaving Moran to his own thoughts (for once in awhile). He could tell that Moriarty was quickly becoming bored with the usual planning of London's extensive crime ring - it was the only reason he could think of for why she would bring in Irene Adler. Fresh blood. A new variable.

Insanity.

But he didn't say that aloud. He knew, from ages ago, never to condemn nor condone the state of Moriarty's sanity. He had done so once... and only once. As much as his past was his weakness, he was sure that was hers. It gave him dangerous knowledge and also made sure that if ever he decided to stray, Moriarty would not hesitate to put one of his own bullets in his skull.

His fingers tightened around the wheel.

"What will you do with Miss Adler?"

In the silence, Moriarty neither calculated nor schemed. When she examined the pieces again, a plan was so laughably easy that she didn't bother to waste more than a few seconds contemplation on it.

She looked askance at Moran, raising an eyebrow. "Now that she knows the secret, you mean?" She smiled, sitting back in her seat. "Well, I suspect a trip is in order. Perhaps the French Riviera. I'm sure Miss Adler despises being a pawn to someone else, and I'd hate to have her think I've forgotten all about her and her silly little secrets."

Secrets that, when revealed, could disgrace people, but not bring a nation to its knees. Useless, and rather selfish and dishonourable. Moriarty had other plans for Irene Adler's secrets. 

Perhaps she could even tow Mycroft Holmes along for the ride.


End file.
